Explosions In a Sky
by IWantMaStix
Summary: Set in 2012 after Brittany and Santana graduate from McKinley.  One incident causes their relationship to change forever.
1. The Moon Is Down

**Chapter 1: THE MOON IS DOWN**

_**(Brittany, Tokyo, November 2012)**_

What was this now? Rum? Vodka? Something mixed with cherries? It was so sweet. Too sweet. It didn't matter. I took another swallow.

My arms hugged the table. Seated on the floor, the rest of me lay hidden under wood. No problems. Nothing to show that I didn't want to show. Everyone was laughing, but it seemed so hard to laugh, to look at all of these so-called friends and laugh as hard as I could at nothing funny.

For her it was easy to pretend, the burn of alcohol settling inside every vein and zooming up to her head like a sleeping pill. It must have been like breathing to drink so fast. Half a liter gone already.

She was seated across from me, her body melted against the sofa, fingers tugging at the sleeves of her leather jacket. I glanced at her eyes. They were dark as usual and painted on mine. All I could see in those dark eyes was the darkness of that night.

_Where are you, Santana? I can't see you._

It was nothing that could have been said. Instead I brought the smeared glass to my lips and finished what I'd started. Ke$ha played in the background. My skull hammered bone into skin, cheeks hot and red and everything burning.

I didn't wanna laugh anymore. I only wanted to be like her. To forget.

No. I couldn't forget it. I could never forget.

Santana stretched, her foot grazing my calf. I took another sip of her and suddenly my belly couldn't hold it.

No one noticed as I fled the scene. I dashed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it as I fell onto tile. The toilet had just been cleaned. Flowers, bleach and spring. But deep down it still smelled dirty, making my stomach swirl.

How long I sat there, who knew. I remembered blood. A bitten tongue. I remembered pink spit in the water, my face slowly cooling. And I remembered getting up and sneaking away, up to my bedroom, where no one followed.

I lay on the bed with the light glaring down. And then I heard a knock, her rough voice through the wood.

"Brit? You in there? What the fuck's going on?"

I didn't bother to answer. I swallowed back everything I wanted to say, the words clotting in my mouth.

"Brit? Can I come in?"

I spread my arms across the bedspread, closing my eyes on the forming tears. When they forced themselves back open, so was my door, her frame in the hollow between dark and light. She pressed her fingers to my wall. Her long black hair lay straight against her head, no halo.

"Brit?"

"What?"

"_What_ what? Can I talk to you?"

I shrugged.

She took a step onto the tatami, sliding the door closed behind her. Her fingers crushed my One Tree Hill poster, hastily tacked to the fusuma. I didn't want her to see all of this. My sketch of a room. My outline of a life.

Yes, I did. She should notice this sadness rubbed into my skin. It was made of her. She was like a rock, like concrete, something you scratched yourself on as a child.

"What's wrong? Are you crying?" She clutched one arm across her stomach. Her eyes seemed so heavy and full of liquor.

"Why did you come tonight?"

"You wanted me to. Right? See your big life in Japan." She took a few steps forward, hovering near me like some sort of ghost. "I promised you I would."

"But you've barely said a word to me these past four months. You called like twice and sent me some emails. And now you've been here three days and you act like we're not even..."

"Not even what?"

"Not even friends," I whispered.

She bit her lip and bent her head, eyes plugged into the corner pocket of a wall. "Jesus,

Brit, what's the big deal?" she hissed. "We're still friends, okay? You want us to be something magical or something? It's not like that anymore."

"So everything's fine now?"

She gave me one of her patented smiles, crazy at both ends. "Yeah, I'm totally fine! Why aren't you? I mean, you're in fucking Japan! That's awesome! Fucking live a little, huh?"

Her face clouded over. Everything was getting erased.

"I miss you," I said, pausing to swallow her eyes.

"What are you talking about?" She blinked hard, rubbing her lashes with tiny balled fists. "_You're_ the one who left Lima!"

It wasn't her in front of me anymore. My best friend. My girlfriend. My firework. How could four months feel so long? How could four months seem like another person's lifetime?

"You could have talked to me. I could have helped you," I said. "I've seen every episode of 'Oprah.'"

"Fuck you, Brittany." It was blunt, three pebbles thrust from her lips to my ears.

I said the only thing left I could say. "I love you, Santana."

"Fuck you."

"I never left you. You left yourself." I managed to spit it out before crying. And then I couldn't stop. I bent into the blue blanket, shoving my chin into its waves as my eyeliner melted.

She didn't say anything, only coming in beside me. And, for the first time in ages, I felt her hand on my shoulder. She pressed her cheek next to mine, her hair in my eyes, the sugary smell of it drifting into my nostrils. Her fingers slid towards my forehead. She stroked it gently and then, dipping lower, wiped at my tears.

The coolness of her skin was like a Big Gulp from the 7-Eleven we used to go to in high school. I didn't think anything else could make me feel so full.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her full lips brushed my ear. On her breath, the months of whiskey and soda. "Brit, it can't be like it was before." A sadness cut across her deep voice in lines. "It just can't."

She was kneeling in front of me, her fingers on top of mine. They curled around the skin, black nail polish that was starting to chip. It was mine. She'd taken it from me. We never outgrew that, the sharing. After all of this time we still matched.

I took a moment to gaze into her eyes. She looked back, falling slowly.

Then she stood up and pushed herself away from me, her legs shuffling across my tatami, in those skinny jeans, her familiar jacket just slightly more faded. She thrust the sleeves up and a line of inked stars exploded across her left wrist.

"Brit, I don't get so close to people. You know that. It's nothing to do with you, okay?"

"But you were my girlfriend. You were my best friend in the whole world. You were like my goldfish that I always kept catching at the state fair. And, when you died, I just caught you again."

She made a face, scratching her nose. "What are you talking about?" She sighed. "Fuck, I'll be back in Ohio by Sunday anyway. So come on. Just forget all this." On her face a weak smile leapt up to hit the light. She stood there, shaking her head.

I never thought that fire could move so slowly.

"Santana," I pleaded.

She burst and then disappeared.


	2. Welcome, Ghosts

**Chapter 2: WELCOME, GHOSTS**

_**(Santana, Lima, June 2012)**_

I wasn't even 18 when it happened.

17- 10+7.

17- 12+5.

17- 14+3

Either way you added it up, it was a fucking low number. I hated this number. 17. The way it felt in my mouth, all sharp and jagged with its three straight lines piercing my tongue straight through.

I had a late birthday, September. We'd all graduated in May and everyone but me and Brittany had gone on with their 18 year-old selves, off to jobs or summer courses. But here I was, still 17 and still in Lima. Still singing. That's all I had.

I wanted to grow up. I hated being 17. If I could just finish it, hurry up and finish it already, then all of those 17 year-old memories might finish themselves off too.

I smeared her eye makeup, black and cold, around my deep brown eyes. They stared back at me through the mirror and they didn't seem like me and that's the way I wanted it. Her makeup on my face, her nail polish on my hands. In some small way she could save me. Save me from being me.

I heard them cheering throughout the Lima Community Concert Hall. The familiar coils of vomit twisted in my stomach, lurching upwards. They lodged themselves like lead behind my ribcage.

God, every fucking night.

The stars were in my eyes again. I was a baby. Seventeen. Two weeks into this and I still puked before every show, rushing for the toilet to hold me like it was Brittany. She'd be here tonight, to say goodbye. But I didn't wanna see her. Not now. Not ever.

The world was shaking- my hands, my feet, my chest- thinking of her.

I didn't wanna see her. Not her face. Not her smile. Not her body, coming in so naturally next to mine.

I coughed at a sharpness in my throat, the taste of bitter vomit in my mouth. I spit in the sink and rinsed my tongue with a handful of tap water. "Come on, Santana, you can do this."

Santana? Santana? She had gone away so long ago.

_"You know, you're the hottest fucking lesbian," _he'd uttered, his steamy breath at my neck and his face pressed so close to mine.

I saw that face now whenever I closed my eyes. His short, dark hair. Those thin lips and that glint in his hazel eyes. I choked, the taste of him all over. From the counter I grabbed two sticks of Doublemint and wadded them up, shoving the glittery square into my mouth.

_Brittany, I love you so much. Why did you have to be there? Why did you have to be there? _

I didn't wanna see her. Not now. Not ever again.


	3. A Poor Man's Memory

**Chapter 3: A POOR MAN'S MEMORY**

_**(Brittany, Baltimore, August 2011)**_

"Where are we?" Santana asked with a yawn. Her eyes blinked open slowly, lashes fluttering over faded black shadow and crusts of mascara.

Her head was on my shoulder. I should have known better than to let her sleep. All of these jagged tour dates disoriented her, even more so with a heavy head full of stars.

"Baltimore," I whispered in her ear.

She always asked. She never wanted to make a mistake on stage and blurt out the wrong city. She'd practice in the mirror with me before every show. "Hey Boston, how's it going? Philly...awesome! What's up, New York?"

The school bus rumbled down a vague highway. Every road looked the same now. Boston, Philadelphia, New York, Baltimore. What was the difference?

Santana groaned as a smile fell lazily between her cheeks, a summer hammock swinging. "Good morning, Baltimore," she sang. "Every day's like an open door..." She jabbed my forearm with her finger. "Remember when we watched that after school last year? What a fucked-up movie."

"Yeah, I remember."

She peered at me, scrunching up her nose. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," I said.

She splashed her eyes on mine, brown on blue, never turning away. Whenever she looked at me this way it made me wanna grab her and never let go.

Santana stuck her tongue into the parted corner of her lips and ran a hand through my long, blonde hair. "Did you even comb this after last night?"

"Quit it," I whispered, knocking her hand away.

She let go, wiping her palm on the thigh of her jeans. "Your gel is all built-up in there now." She yawned, arms stretched above her head. "I'm fucking tired. I mean it's cool and all, that the most loserific club on Planet Earth gets to go on a LESBO COFFEEHOUSES OF THE EAST COAST tour, but I am SO over it."

Santana laughed and I laughed along with her.

"What? It's totally true. All of these places we go to are for dykes. We win Nationals and I come out and everyone wants New Directions to go on a gayass tour. Like literally gay. It's super ironic."

I narrowed my eyes. "Who cares if the coffeehouses are made of iron?"

Santana's right arm still in the air, she threw it around my shoulder and pulled me into her. Her fingertips curled over my chest. Her nails were so tiny, the polish I had lent her last week cracked now into dark half moons.

I placed a hand over her wrist and squeezed it, fingers crawling down to meet hers. We laced them, settled together like children on the seat cushion. One head instinctively bent in to touch the other, a heart formed in the hollow space between our shoulders.

"Hey now," Santana spoke softly. "Don't go getting your dirty sex hair on my awesome new T-shirt." She twisted her head to look up at me.

"Okay," I said, winking. "Can I borrow it sometime?"


	4. It's Natural To Be Afraid

**Chapter 4: IT'S NATURAL TO BE AFRAID**

_**(Santana, Tokyo, November 2012)**_

The stars here were louder. They sang out like I did, with voices that shouldn't have been their own. No one expected it. I never thought stars could shine so hard in Tokyo. Wasn't it supposed to be smoggy here? All of these fucking buildings.

I looked up at the sky and counted off each glowing pinprick.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...

My heels met the wall outside Brittany's house. I sat there drinking, drinking fast and kicking a line of mossy brick. My scuffed boots left their damage.

Someone had given me a cup with Jack in it. A kid with a fauxhawk and piercings who looked too much like Puck and spoke in broken English with lots of vowels tacked on. I told him "Straight" and he laughed at me. I wasn't sure if it was 'cuz Brittany had told him about us, or 'cuz he didn't believe a girl could drink the way that I did.

The alcohol on my tongue felt as natural as spit. But still it burned. It always burned. Everywhere. I squeezed the cup in my hand, chewing its tasteless rim.

_Don't make me cry, Brittany. Don't make me fucking cry._

But the tears were already in my eyes, already wiped on my fingers. The drops of splashed Jack on my palms left red marks along my cheeks.

I looked down at the line of stars along my wrist, the tattoo I'd gotten after Brittany left. Black and silver and purple and red. I ran a finger over its many points.

Somehow it felt better to be hurt like this, to _choose _the hurt yourself and stare at it and know you had some power still.

I gulped at the whiskey in my plastic cup, bent and nearly cracked in half now. With a final swallow I crashed it into the bushes and pulled my arms over my chest. I wanted to hide them. All of this GIRLYNESS. Hide inside one of Brittany's goofy sweaters until I got turned inside out.

But she couldn't touch me now. No one could. I was a ghost. A shadow. A song on the stage that exploded into a haze of light.

At the end of it all I just burned away.


	5. Memorial

**Chapter 5: MEMORIAL**

_**(Brittany, Lima, June 2012)**_

From the front row I watched as she gathered herself- the way her fingers danced around the length of the mic stand, her bent head gazing at the floor, a cloud of black waves, a tiny giggle as it slowly rose up.

"Hey...so one of my friends taught me how to play guitar last year," she said, pulling the mic away from its stand and walking across the stage to pick up Puck's acoustic. "Actually he's not really a friend, but a total dick I used to fuck. Anyway, you know how that goes." She laughed again. "But I've always wanted to give this instrument thing a go. Hope I don't murder you all with my shittastic playing."

I smiled at her familiar attitude, smiled, and then the smile fell.

This song. This gorgeous, ancient song she'd played for me in her bedroom when she was going through her Fleetwood Mac phase. "Landslide" and "Songbird" and then this, downloaded off of Soulseek and pumped into my ears through her $400 Shures.

"And the planets of the universe

Go their way

Not astounded by the sun or the moon

Or by the day

You and I will simply disappear

Out of sight

But I'm afraid soon there'll be no light

I will never love again

The way I loved you

You will never rule again

The way you have ruled

We will never change again

The way we are changing

Oh, you'll forget the chill of love

But not the strain

You will remember

But I will die a slow death

It's only an overture

To something that was best..."

_"This song is so tragic," _she breathed. _"It's like everything I feel sometimes."_

_"Really?"_

Her blank gaze caught me, her face suddenly changing into one big smile. _"Nah. Not really."_

How could she act like nothing had happened, everything buried so deeply in those lyrics?Twenty-three nights had passed now. Twenty-three nights, but I couldn't forget any of them.

Her face was in every shard of moonlight.

The grass under my feet was her leather jacket: dark and stiff and unyielding.

The bed that I slept in was cold tile: the stained brown bathroom floor beneath us.

My alarm: that solitary hard knock on the metal door, reverberating in my ears for weeks on end.

_"Santana? Santana? You in there?"_

I'd pulled her underwear back on for her, my fingers so careful not to graze any skin, beads of sweat upon my nails from where they met her thighs anyway.

_"Santana, it's okay," _I whispered.

But everything was shaking. I was shaking all over her.

She stood there unmoving, her body cold and plastic and heavy. Like a mannequin's. Like porcelain.

I bent down and wiped the drops of blood off the floor. A wad of rough paper towels in my fist, shot out of the cannon of that plastic box on the wall.

_"It's okay. He's not coming back." _

My tongue against the roof of my mouth tasted like metal and cotton. I couldn't swallow.

Her lips were pink and cracked, all of the bitchiness kissed away. She licked them and blinked at me, saw me, the damp brown paper in my wet hands and how much they trembled. The tears which filled my eyes like clouds of rain threatened to burst.

She drew a finger to her cheek, rubbing the soft space below each set of lashes. _"Brittany, it's fine. It's fine, Brittany. Just get out," _she spoke in a husky whisper.

_"Santana..."_

_"GET OUT!"_

Her dark eyes bloomed the size of sunflowers, bending into nothing and shaking in their sockets. And then she was crying. Collapsed against the sink, she took her head in her hands, her knotted black hair hiding everything.

I couldn't forget. How could she?

How could she keep singing, night after night, when I couldn't even swallow?


	6. What Do You Go Home To

**Chapter 6: WHAT DO YOU GO HOME TO**

_**(Santana, Charlotte, August 2011)**_

She always came knocking on the door of my hotel room, late at night after everyone else had gone to sleep, while I played Puck's guitar and sat waiting.

I couldn't lie. I waited for her.

She said bunking with Rachel got to her. She talked too much, and it was always about Rachel. Or lame Broadway musicals. And she never got Brittany's humor or wanted to make fun of Mr. Schue's vest dependency issues or talk about Lord Tubbington's special diet. Rachel didn't understand Brittany the way I did. Nobody understood her the way I did.

That's what she told me.

"Hey," I smiled, holding the door ajar.

Brittany stuck a foot through the slim pocket of too-cold air. She had her slippers on again, these crazy black cat heads she'd bought from God-knows-where. "Hey," she whispered. "Did you leave a light on?"

Lame joke. It was some 80s song we'd heard once and thought was really cute.

I waved a palm over my shoulder. "I lit a candle for you. See? It's supposed to be watermelon, but it totally smells like green apple. Such bullshit. Fucking Yankee Candle needs to get their shit straight already."

Brittany laughed. "Can I come in?"

I pushed the door all the way open. She brushed past me with a goofy grin on her face and pulled it closed. "Why are you wearing my stuff?"

"What? These?" I looked down at my polka dot tank top and blue-and-green striped pajama pants. Her polka dot tank top and her blue-and-green striped pajama pants.

"Yeah, I know. You have terrible taste in clothes. And slippers."

"No," Brittany countered. "My slippers are amazing."

"Sorry, but this shit looks like modern art threw up on me."

"So why are you wearing them?" she asked.

I shrugged, a blush coating my caramel cheeks. "All my stuff was dirty. Whatever. It's only for bed."

"But _I'm _here now," Brittany answered.

"Yeah, well I don't need to impress _you_," I said, smirking.

Brittany nodded towards Puck's guitar, haphazardly propped against the side of the mini fridge.

"What were you playing?"

"What?"

"Just now. I know you were playing something. The guitar's about to fall over." She stepped across the room to grab it. "Here," she said, handing it off to me. "Play your song."

I took it from her fingers and held it to my chest. Isn't it funny how much something that has no life in it can feel like it's living anyway? Can feel like it's breathing? When I held Puck's guitar there I felt a wooden heartbeat pounding over my own. I felt how warm it was. I breathed in its scent- like history and the future all mixed up together.

And then I got enough sense in me to realize that I was cradling Puck's guitar, something he had touched, like it was a fucking baby or something. His dirty sex shark sweat was all over it! And I remembered his hands all over me and mine on him, beating him off and dragging him into bed, the two of us fucking last year. You know, before me and Brittany.

"Shit," I hissed.

"Santana?" Brittany asked, waving a hand in front of me. She must have noticed the crazy look of disgust on my face. "You in there?"

I looked at her, standing before me with her blue eyes grinning. She scratched her head, the blond streaks caught in the candlelight. She looked like a fucking angel. She really was so beautiful.

_So beautiful._

"Yeah, sorry," I whispered. "I'm here."

"I thought you disappeared into your head world again," she winked, her hand falling to touch my arm. "You gonna play?"

I shrugged and turned around. "You don't wanna hear this crap, Brittany. It's just stupid teenager stuff, you know. It's fucking lame."

"Oh, like me?"

"What?"

"'Cuz it's stupid."

"Would you shut up with that stupid crap!" I yelled, punching her in the shoulder. "You're not stupid. Just shut the fuck up." I turned around, Puck's guitar sliding up against my chest.

"I wanna hear you sing," Brittany said softly.

I peered over my shoulder at her. She was rubbing her arm, the one I'd just socked. But her eyes were glowing. Jesus, she really _did_ wanna hear it.

I still got flustered around her when it came to music. I had no idea why. Brittany could dance. I could sing. That's the way it had always been. But whenever her legs moved around me it was like I lost my voice completely.

"Okay, sit down," I said, giving her a sharp nod.

She fell across my bed on her stomach, the soft cushion of the comforter giving way beneath her, her cat slippers gouging lines along my pillow.

"Brit, look, could you please take those ridiculous things off? I can't sing to you when the Cat Twins are staring at me."

Brittany made a face. "Oh, sorry," she spoke, kicking her slippers off rather quickly. She beamed and brought her chin to rest in her palms, elbows dug into the sheets. "Okay, I'm ready for the concert now, Ms. Lopez. S-Lo. SLOW. You're slow."

"Shut up." I laughed. "Don't make fun of me! This is like my heart and shit."

"I know your heart," she said softly, a faint smile creeping up her cheeks.

"Yeah, I know you do," I said, looking down to avoid her eyes, so full of me. My fingers hit the strings as the room filled with apple-scented smoke.


	7. So Long, Lonesome

**Chapter 7: SO, LONG, LONESOME**

_**(Brittany, Lima, June 2012)**_

She knew I was leaving. Plane ticket bought, the house arranged, tour schedule cut and pasted into place. Everything was set three months ago, way before we graduated.

I should have been so excited. A year in Japan, dancing, all the press I could ask for and show after fabulous show. But I felt a tug in my abdomen, like all of my organs were falling open into string and winding tight around me.

Santana waltzed into the dressing room with a sigh. Her shock of black hair was glowing. "Hey," she said. Collapsing on the sofa, she bent down to peel off her boots.

I should have wanted to tell her everything. But my only thought was to pull her into my arms like one of the stuffed animals I still slept with and take her with me. If I could be with her, be by her side, then maybe...

"Hey," I echoed. My voice seemed too quiet, like how I used to be before I met her. "You were amazing tonight."

Her feet were bare now, all of her tiny toes pressed against the cold floor.

"Well, it's Loserville Lima, you know? I don't need much to be amazing. The venue alone is enough," she said, choking on a laugh.

A tiny grin curved its way into the corner of Santana's mouth. But she never looked up at me. Instead she threw her legs up onto the crystal coffee table in front of the sofa.

For a moment I studied her. My best friend. My girlfriend. On stage she never seemed this small. Whenever the notes came out she became someone else, someone taller and braver and older. But here, melted into leather and alone in a ball of black, she was Santana again. My best friend, and more than that. The only other half of me.

She was wearing my things- my nail polish, my eyeliner. But that eye makeup was hugging two empty circles, carved out like stars and given to the night. I didn't know what to do to take the darkness away.

I heard a door slam closed. Her mini fridge.

"Hey, you want a drink, Brit?" she asked. In one hand was a bottle of whiskey. With the other she balanced a 2 liter of Coke on her hip.

I knew she'd started drinking, not long after it happened. But I didn't wanna see it in person. Not like this.

"Santana, it's late. Maybe you shouldn't have that."

"Oh, whatever!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. And then both bottles were open, poured into a Hendrix mug she'd bought at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Cleveland. August 23rd. Santana took a heady gulp. "Hey, thanks again for coming tonight," she said, smiling up at me. "I didn't suck _too_ bad, did I?"

"You were great..."

She took another swallow. God, she looked so tiny, that mug so big.

"I got some pictures of the house. You wanna see?" I asked. I pulled my camera out of my bag and waved it in front of her.

"Throw it to me." She stood up, setting her mug down upon the coffee table. A clash and a splash. Brown spots on a lake of ice.

I gazed at her and, on her cheeks, I could still see the tears. Hidden under skin. Transparent.

"Here," I said, tossing the camera towards her.

She caught it in her palms and fell back into the sofa, her knees drawn up to meet her chest. She flicked through my pictures in silence. And drank. She drank so fast. All of the whiskey and Coke was almost gone. Only a few scratches left.

"Wow, it's fucking nice," she breathed.

"Yeah, it's pretty big. It's in a suburb. Hey, will you come visit? When the time is good? I'll fly you out. Promise me...okay?

"Yeah, sure," she replied, never once looking up. "I promise. I promise."

"Santana?"

"What?" Her gaze lay buried in her hands.

"Umm...you could come with me. If you wanted. Just for a while. I'll ask the management. You could join a few of the tour dates. Maybe they'll let you sing or something."

She laughed loudly, the roughness of it piercing every corner of the room. "Brit, don't be retarded! It's a dance tour! There isn't any singing!"

"Oh, right," I said, hanging my head and rubbing at my temples. "Okay, then, I won't go for so long. I don't _have_ to go for all of it. I'll just do a little and come back."

I looked up at her, her eyes finally choosing to meet mine.

She made a face and looked off towards the closed door. "That is so stupid, Brit. This is a _job_, like a real job, not Cheerios. Or Glee Club either. You can't back out now! What, are you scared or something?" She gave me a crazy laugh. "It's _only_ a year," she spoke, the glass hitting her lips one more time.

A year. A year. 23 days x 15.

She took her final mouthful of whiskey, still giggling.


	8. Your Hand In Mine

**Chapter 8: YOUR HAND IN MINE**

_**(Santana, Philadelphia, August 2011)**_

I stood in front of her, smoothing the scraps of hair which fell across her forehead. She felt both warm and cool at the same time. Like winter and summer all mixed up into one long season. A glimmer of sweat met my fingers.

"Brittany," I whispered.

Her eyes were closed, the pale lashes bowing down to touch her skin. She'd fallen asleep. I'd played her my song and she'd fallen asleep. Stupid. I should have known better than to sing something that sounded like a prayer.

_I could kiss her right now. If I wanted to._

But she shifted across my bedspread, rolling onto her side. "Mmm..." she moaned.

I saw her peek at me through lids half-fallen. I took a breath, my hand drawn back.

She smiled softly. "Were you watching me sleep?"

My chest burned, the heated flush rising to meet my cheeks. "No," I laughed.

She reached out to grab me, pulling my fingers into her own. "I'm awake now."

"Doesn't Rachel wonder where you are?" I asked. "I mean, you come to my room every other night. Why doesn't she ever tell Mr. Schue what we're doing?"

I looked down at her hand, massaging mine. Her touch was so perfect. So safe.

"I don't know," Brittany spoke with a shrug. "She doesn't care."

I laughed. "Rachel Berry? Rachel-fucking-Berry doesn't care?"

"What? She knows you're Lebanese. And that I'm bicurious. And that we're together."

"Bisexual," I corrected her, poking my index finger into her forehead.

"Ow," Brittany replied, wincing.

"Oh, shut up. That didn't hurt."

She was still holding onto my hand, her fingers sliding in between mine and pulling me into her. I ran my other palm over Motel 6's wrinkled sheets, smoothing out the dingy white valleys of cotton near Brittany's thighs.

"I don't want to tonight," I whispered to her.

Her eyes fell. "We don't have to."

"I'm tired."

"I know."

She smiled at me. "Can I stay anyway?" she asked. "Your bed is softer than mine. And it doesn't smell like Rachel's Febreze."

She laughed. She laughed so I had to laugh too.

Brittany brought her thumb to her mouth and bit down on its corner, sucking, as I looked away. She always did this when she was nervous. She'd done it since freshman year, but we weren't that young anymore.

"Okay," I answered.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Beaming, Brittany crawled up to the head of the bed. She rolled back the covers and melted herself down under them, flipping the edge of the sheets up as a welcome. A pat of her hand on the heavy mattress.

"Come on, San."

That word in her mouth. My babyish nickname. No one else called me that but her, and I wouldn't let them either. I could feel the motor of my heart spinning against my ribcage, threatening to crack it into a million cuts of bone.

"Santana..."

I climbed in beside her and she wrapped me tight. Her arms swallowed my shoulders, her thighs curving upwards to meet my stomach, her nose next to mine and breathing me in.

"Mmm, lotion," she said.

I breathed her too. She smelled like my candle. Like apples. And like Brittany: grass and moth balls and fuzzy things like the bottoms of cats' paws.

I blinked as she stared back, smiling. Her eyes were inside of me. And me, in hers. Her eyes, never moving. I could live there, like a fish swimming 'round and 'round in a bowl of blue water.

"You okay?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yeah, okay."

She was still staring, still smiling. With two fingers she pushed a strand of hair from my forehead. Those fingers trailed their way down my face, dancing. Then suddenly she was leaning in, the heat of her body clouding me as she placed her lips on mine. A kiss so soft and sweet and tender and adoring.

We'd done this before, so many times before, but this time it felt different. Like she really truly loved me back. Like it wasn't just 'cuz I'd told her all of that shit in the hallway five months ago and she didn't wanna hurt me. Or that she'd finally accepted me only after I'd accepted myself.

I guess I never believed it. That she'd actually broken up with Artie for me after all. Who would believe that? Crazy, bitchy me over a totally normal boy. Even though his legs didn't work and he was a loser.

I took a breath and opened my mouth. "Brit? Do you still...you know...?"

"What?" she asked, kissing the tip of my nose.

"Do you still love me?"

She laughed, her warm breath striking my cheek. "Yes. That's what my horoscope said for this month."

I smirked.

"I think those Yankee Candles are like drugs," Brittany said. She flicked her kiss off of my nose with the side of her thumb. "You've gone crazy."

"Yeah," I breathed.

"Yeah."

She nervously bit her lip and I swallowed it with my mouth, the knot unfurling. Grabbing at her shirt collar, I pulled her into me. She moaned into my tongue.

I brushed the cotton of her T-shirt with my fingers, sliding a palm underneath, her soft skin laced with heat moving gently beneath my touch. Her muscular stomach. The juncture between her breasts.

"You changed your mind?" Brittany whispered into my neck. She groaned, pushing herself into me. My palm was squashed between our bodies. I felt her leg at my crotch, her knee digging deep until I was forced to sigh myself.

I gave her a gentle smile, my shoulders bent to touch hers. Fingers caressing her nipples, I drew her tongue into my mouth, mine inching inward, its tip trailing the length of her own.

She pressed her body into me, both of our breasts mashed into nothing. Inside my head she was breathing hard. It was as loud as a storm. I couldn't hear my own thoughts anymore.

Her feet were at my calves, her wavy hair curled alongside my cheek. And then her hand, coming between us, grabbed for my palm. Her rough gasps filled my ear, the weight of her fingers between mine pushing me down inside her underwear.

Her skin was achingly hot. I felt the soft bristle of where she had shaved, my middle finger hitting the spot where it ended. She was wet. She moaned across my neck as my fingers pressed into her.

I did it slower than usual. To feel her. To hear her. To taste her breath near my mouth.

When she came around my hand, I pulled out and kissed her, swallowing the still water of her eyes so that I could have the same peace. I only ever felt this calm with _her_.

"Santana?" Brittany breathed.

"What?"

"Of course I love you. I love you more than anything."

I wanted to say it too.

I_ love you. I love you so much, Brittany. You don't even know how much. You make me ME. You make me Santana. You make me feel like nothing can ever go wrong._

I wanted to say it so badly, but it didn't feel right. Like I didn't deserve it.

"Night, Brit. And don't you ever tell Rachel that I was wearing these fucking hideous clothes of yours tonight."

A giggle bled into my ear as I closed my eyes. Her arms, like blankets, drew me close to her chest. Her hand fell gently over mine. The smell of her was all around me. On my skin.

Nothing could ever go wrong.


	9. Look Into the Air

**Chapter 9: LOOK INTO THE AIR**

_**(Brittany, Tokyo, July 2012)**_

Three nights in Japan and 10000 miles from her.

My room was still bare. It didn't feel like any kind of home. Wood instead of brick walls. Tatami vs. carpet. Fusuma I couldn't slam shut in anger. Above my head hung two circular light bulbs, plugged into a plastic chandelier. They looked like UFOs.

I lay in bed gazing up until my vision began to blur. There were spots all over my irises. Green, red, yellow. I blinked and my lids fell closed.

Traffic lights...

That night we'd gone back to my place by taxi. She sat at the very edge of the seat, pressing herself hard against the door jamb.

There were still tear marks on her cheeks, a cut on her lip, purple and brown splotches of fingerprints circling her wrist. Her dark hair hung in waves near her shoulders, the tips wet from where she'd perched sobbing over that sink.

_"Get out, get out, get out..."_

Spoken over and over and over.

But I could only stand there then, nervously jiggling the lock of the bathroom stall door and staring at my sneakers.

There wasn't anything to say. It wasn't a moment for words, some space where anything with sound would have helped.

And now, trapped in the equally dead silence of this taxi, I saw each row of suspended street lights swirl behind us and I knew there was no going back. This road, that road, and the next. Each one vanished so quickly and all of that old life fell further and further behind.

She didn't look at me, didn't touch me, walking in a jagged line to the door of my house like she'd almost forgotten how.

I turned the key and ambled down the narrow hallway. My parents had left the light on and it was too bright. Way too bright. Like a supermarket late at night where only the drunks and the college kids went. It didn't feel like home at all.

Behind me I heard Santana's footsteps echoing, the gentle collision of rubber against wood. She sat down on the loveseat, pulling her hands into her lap. She studied them, poring over each fingernail as if they were the pages of a book. Her legs were bent together unnaturally, pressed together so tight, her boots sunk into the floor.

_What he did to her. That asshole. What he did to her..._

I jammed my hands into the pockets of my parachute pants, digging into my hips and holding on for dear life. _"I'll be back, Santana,"_ I said. _"I'm gonna get you a blanket, okay?"_

I saw the back of her head form a faint nod, a slow blur of black. And then I rushed out of the room before she could hear me crying.

The bathroom door closed behind me, I dropped the lid of the toilet. It came crashing down against its white bowl. My breath was a jumpy line, my feet pacing the base of that porcelain until I fell upon its seat.

I couldn't do anything then but let my hands swallow my face, let the tears soak my skin until it grew soft.

She wasn't gonna tell. She didn't wanna tell. Santana Lopez didn't have shit like this happen to her. Santana Lopez could take care of herself.

That's what she told me.

And now Karofsky would just go free. He'd never have to deal with anything. He'd never have to see her again. Never have to face what he'd done. Never have to hurt at all.

In the mirror my eyeliner was spider webs, weaved across my cheeks. I stuck my index finger into the tiny tub of Vaseline I kept on the sink, rubbing it over my eyelids and wiping them clean. The cotton pad in my palm was so dark.

_"Santana, I'm coming! Okay?" _I called out.

I opened the bathroom door, creeping into the corridor where a small closet held my linens. I pulled out a blanket for her. It was nothing special, gray and warm from some crappy store at the Lima Mall.

Her shoes were off now and she was curled up on the tiny two-seater with her chin against her chest. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe she wasn't. But her eyes were closed, pushing me out.

I stood there for a second, gazing down at her and thinking of all of the things I wished I could say. Of all of the things I wished I could do. That I could somehow turn into Superman and spin the world around.

But what I wanted most was just to hug her. To smooth out her hair. To hold her hand.

_I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't. _

No, I couldn't touch her at all.

So I lay the blanket over her, the fabric hitting air then landing, and I turned away from all of the gathering wrinkles.


	10. Inside It All Feels the Same

**Chapter 10: INSIDE IT ALL FEELS THE SAME**

_**(Santana, Lima, July 2012)**_

3 A.M. and I was wide awake.

Without her I could try to forget it. Without her I didn't have to do it anymore, give away the closest parts of myself. Not to anyone. Not ever.

My plan was to just keep drinking and sleeping and- when the nightmares came- throw them up in the kitchen sink and pad back to bed. I'd huddle there like a baby and hold everything tight. So tight and perfect. Like a ball of rubber bands that couldn't be undone. My hands under my arms. My legs against my chest. My feet curled under the sheets.

All I had to do was keep drinking and sleeping and singing. Put all of my screams and tears in a song. Punch it in the gut. Throw it out to some faceless audience who'd never really know me at all.

July 5th. She'd told me the date. She was leaving on July 5th.

_"Would you come to the airport with me?" _she asked.

I glanced at the length of her fingers, her palms resting awkwardly near her thighs.

_"It's 6:30. The flight. I know it's early," _Brittany said. _"6:30."_

_"Yeah," _I spoke finally. _"Yeah, I can't go. I'm gonna be pretty busy the next few weeks so..."_

_"Okay. Sure. I understand." _

Her voice carried the weight of a million voices. It sounded so heavy there in my tiny dressing room, spreading itself thick at every corner.

_"Sorry, Brit." _

I didn't wanna look up at her. To see her eyes. To know she'd been crying for me.

_Fuck you, Brittany. Just go. _

3 A.M. and I was wide awake.

Beneath the dim glow of my lamp all of the calendar's red Xs looked like blood. One slash for each day. July 7th.

_Just go._

Without her I could forget. Forget her open palm guiding me to her door. Forget the look on her face in Shotgunz's bathroom mirror. Forget the feel of that blanket on me the morning after. Forget having to look at her then, having to stand there in my body when I only wanted to run and run and run.

I twisted on the mattress, pulling my legs in close, wrapped tight so that I couldn't be opened.

_"I'll call you when I get there," _she'd said, her voice so soft and distant, like she'd already gone.

I was sitting on the couch then, watching my cell phone vibrate, that little line of blue lit up and dancing. I remembered, looking down at my dark nails, her polish applied so evenly. I remembered looking down as the tears hit my fingers, that little line of blue lit up and dancing.

And I never answered.


	11. Magic Hours

**Chapter 11: MAGIC HOURS**

_**(Brittany, Cleveland, August 2011)**_

We stood outside of the glass pyramid in Cleveland, Hendrix and Joplin and Holly still living behind those walls. Santana leaned into me, her hands wrapped loosely around my bicep. And she squeezed. The glitter in her eyes, the excitement, was dancing.

"I'm gonna be in there someday," she said. "Totally. Well, if I don't mess myself up on drugs first. All of the best musicians were addicts."

I peered down at her. She'd borrowed one of my sun hats and it struck my chest. "Don't say that. That's scary."

She made a face. "Whatever. It's a joke."

"Yeah, whatever," I said softly.

She pulled away from me. "Oh, please! Just 'cuz you're perfect."

The way she was looking at me then, like I was some sort of god, thrust my stomach up into my throat. I could never disappoint her.

"Okay," I said. "So who will you be inducted with?"

"Not that peck, Rachel Berry, that's for sure. I think she'll be too busy trying to figure out how to use her magic acorns to make it," she giggled. Santana slapped a palm across her open mouth as her eyes widened. "Oh, shit! That was a good one."

I gave her a laugh in return, hugging her close as a hot, damp breeze hit us both. "Yeah, I'm gonna write that one down in in my diary tonight. But you know, Lord Tubbington will read it so he might tell Rachel what you said. And then everyone in New Directions will know you have a big Lebanese crush on her."

"Shut the fuck up, Brittany. I do not." She put a palm to my hat, pressing it down against her skull, all of those strands of black left blowing near her cheeks. "That's gross."

"Yeah, it's gross. I know. Like when you went to prom with Dave Karofsky instead of with me. That was gross too."

"Shut up, Brittany." The happy, laughing parts of her face disappeared. She glared at me. "Why do you always bring that shit up? He's not even a bad guy...for a _guy_. So what if he doesn't wanna come out?"

And then, before I realized it was happening, she had punched me in the arm. HARD.

"God, Santana," I breathed.

"I can hurt you worse than that too," she replied. Her devil horns were back on her head again, glowing from under my sun hat.

I took her fist in my hand and peeled free each finger, holding them until all of the pressure was gone. "You'd never hurt me," I whispered. "Not for real."

Her brown eyes swelled, pulling me into her and knocking me out. "I could..." She grinned, sliding her fingers into the blank spaces between mine. Her hip lodged itself along my thigh, her shoulder glued to my side. And she looked up at me then with the sun throwing sparks down all over her. "I could totally kill you, you know. If I wanted to."


	12. Greet Death

**Chapter 12: GREET DEATH**

_**(Santana, Lima, May 2012)**_

It was New Directions' graduation party, May 13th, the weekend after graduation. All of us were gonna hit a club, a bar or something, after. Kind of to celebrate, I guess. Not that any of us could drink. Well, not LEGALLY, but I had my plans.

My dad knew the owner of Shotgunz. He'd moved him up on the liver transplant list and now Mr. Shotgunz was sitting pretty and wouldn't be traveling six feet under any time soon. You know, on account of him chugging away half of his own inventory. Idiot.

But my plan was genius. Blackmail and guilt trip and I'd be the star of this graduation party!

"I can't come. Not 'till late," Brittany said. "I've got a meeting with the Japanese people."

Over the phone's gentle static, her voice curled around me like a hug. I hadn't seen her since graduation day, but I could still feel her arms, her fingers at my head flipping that tassel over and then her root beer-flavored kiss coating my mouth.

She was always there. Her warmth. Her love. The loose weight of her hands, making me safe.

"Okay," I told her. "I'll be waiting. I'm gonna get Rachel drunk, like way worse than that party she had in her basement. I can't wait! I'm gonna force her to make out with Quinn."

"Oh, please," Brittany replied, laughing.

"Oh, come on, the sexual tension between those two is so thick it's like that fucking concrete they poured on Chernobyl."

"Yeah, okay. Enjoy your threesome."

"Shut the fuck up, Brittany!" I cried, rubbing the edge of my cell phone with my thumb 'cuz I couldn't punch her.

"I gotta go. I'll be there around twelve. I'll find you, okay?"

"Okay. See you."

"Bye."

I clicked my phone off and stared in the mirror. Was my makeup okay like this? Hers? Her eyeliner and her eye shadow? My tight green dress? My black boots?

My reflection looked different. Like if I stared long enough I might become someone else. Someone better.

I sprayed myself with Gucci Envy Me and closed my bedroom door, rushing out and down the steps of my house.

_"I'll be there around twelve."_

Contrary to popular belief, it didn't take much for me to get trashed. Four rum and ginger ales and I was done! In a haze, I walked past Rachel. She was bent into Finn and whispering something in his ear. I jumped into both of them and shouted.

"Hey, bitches! Aren't you glad you know me?"

Rachel narrowed her eyes at me. "I don't advocate underage drinking, Santana. You know that. And yours and Brittany's ping-pong vomit match last year during 'Tik Tok' effectively put me off alcohol for life," she said, taking a sip of diet Coke. "But thank you so much for organizing this splendid soiree. It's lovely."

"Yeah, thanks, Santana," Finn spoke with a nod. He was having a regular Coke.

I smirked at them, laughing. "Okay, losers, I'm out afores my ass gets contaminated with your lameness."

I bounced along the blank space in front of the bar, wondering what time it was and when the hell Brittany would get there.

_"I'll be there around twelve."_

That's when I saw him, standing at the corner of the counter and drinking a Corona. Dave Karofsky. We hadn't spoken much since the bearding at prom and his massive gay panic over prom king, but I'd caught him looking at me in the halls now and then when I was holding Brittany's hand. Sometimes he gave smiles. Sometimes faces blanker than mine.

Tonight there was a smile though. He stood there staring at me, his hazel eyes slipping down into his shirt collar as soon as he noticed me looking back.

"Dave?" I asked, walking briskly up to glare at him. "What the hell are you doing here? This shit is private invite only."

He ducked his head into his shirt again. "Yeah, I know. But I just wanted to say goodbye to Kurt. Like kind of a last goodbye and thanks kind of thing."

"He told you to come here?"

Dave gave me a sharp nod.

I stared at him as he gulped down his beer. "Well, Kurt's gone. Him and Blaine took off ages ago. To some ladies' spa or something. Gay."

Dave laughed nervously. He set his empty bottle down on the counter. "I've had like ten of these," he said, tapping one white Adidas against the floor. His hand fell next to that empty Corona bottle, his eyelids drifting closed.

I slapped at his knuckles. "Dave! Wake up!" His fingers were wet and chilly from where the outside of his Corona had melted all over him.

"Sorry," he spoke, his eyes coming open and his face falling a little.

"You're drunk as fuck."

"Yeah, I know," he said, turning away.

When he wasn't looking I wiped my hand on the side of my dress.

_"I'll be there around twelve."_

"I'm having another," Dave said, motioning for the bartender. "You want anything?"

"You're gonna buy me a drink?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Rum and ginger," I said, peering up at his face.

He hadn't shaved very well today. His stubble was showing.

We got our drinks and both promptly chugged them. I smiled at him, punching him in the shoulder the way I punched Brittany when she made me think about things I didn't want to.

"What?" he asked, giving me a glassy stare.

"Why the fuck didn't you ever come out?" I asked. "I mean, you totally could have gotten some hot freshman twink to do whatever you wanted." I laughed. "I bet you're horny."

He blinked. A slow and silent blink. He brought his Corona to his lips, swallowing, swallowing, and then it was gone. "You wanna go out to the balcony and talk?"

I laughed at him. "Uhhhhh, no thanks. I've gotta take a piss."

I set my empty glass on the counter next to Dave's arm. The whole bar was spinning. It wasn't just me. It wasn't just in my head. I stumbled past Rachel and Finn, past Quinn who was gluing fake eyelashes to the most gorgeous lids in Lima, past Mercedes and Sam who were totally macking on each other.

The bathroom at Shotgunz was unisex, but I was too drunk to care. I flung the door open and wandered into the empty stall, not bothering to lock it. My head buried in my hands I took the longest piss of my life, wiped myself and stood up and flushed.

And then I was staring in the mirror again, just like I had at my house. My green dress was a little crooked, my eyes bloodshot and somewhere else, my hair tousled by my own absentminded hands.

I didn't look different anymore. I looked like Santana. The usual fucked-up Santana.

The heavy metal door came open. Dave. He smiled at me. His eyes were gone too.

_"I'll be there around twelve. I'll find you, okay?"_

"What the fuck, Dave? You're supposed to knock on unisex bathrooms."

He lumbered up to me, between the V of my parted legs, his knees grazing my hips. I could hear him breathing. And I was full of the smell of him- alcohol and cologne and dirt and Ivory soap.

He tugged at my wrists. "C'mere."

"Get the fuck off, Karofsky!" I yelled, trying to tear myself out of his grip.

He was so big. Too big.

"C'mere," he repeated. His breath fell close to my ear, the hot shards of leftover beer cutting me.

"No, get off!" My fist landed on his chin.

He only laughed. I couldn't say anything else. He shut me up. His heavy palm came up to grip my jaw in a vise, his scratchy mouth colliding with mine. He bit at my lip and let out a moan. His mouth still on me, the heat and the pressure of his skin pushed hard. I felt myself dying. My head was burning. There was nothing inside it but fire.

When he pulled away I whispered, "Please don't do this. Please."

He slammed me into the front door, locking it.

_"I'll be there around twelve. I'll find you, okay?"_

It was over.

Over.

Over.

Over.

"You know you're the hottest fucking lesbian." His steamy breath clouded at my neck as his face pressed close to mine. "But it's ridiculous that you're still gay, Santana," he hissed.

My name. My name in his mouth. Was it really my name? Santana? Santana? It didn't sound real.

Everything was spinning. My legs ached. There was a knife stuck inside of me, cutting and cutting cutting. My eyes made a beeline for anywhere but him.

The ceiling was covered in clouds. Sun and stars and moon. A drape came falling down and covered me in black. I was floating up there. On the clouds. In the sun. In the black. I closed my eyes and fell along the wall.

Dave cleared his throat, the sound coming in from that other world, knocking me back into place.

The bathroom was boiling. Steaming. The tinny sound of music from behind the metal door was like an airplane taking off. It hurt my ears so much. The smell of piss and handsoap was all over the ground.

"See you around, Santana. Happy graduation," he whispered, kissing me on the cheek.

It was so gentle, so kind. I wanted to scratch it off until my fingers bled.

The door opened and closed, a burst of rock hitting my ears. I hastily jammed my hand against the doorframe, sweaty fingers fumbling to lock it.

_"I'll be there around twelve. I'll find you, okay?"_

I sunk into the wall and looked down. My brown eyes watered, burning, mascara bled into everything. My legs felt so cold. The bottom of my dress was up near the tops of my thighs. It wasn't covering me anymore. My underwear...

One minute. Two. Three. Five.

_"I'll be there around twelve."_

Five minutes. Seven. Ten.

_"I'll be there around twelve. I'll find you, okay?"_

"Santana? Santana? You in there?"

I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry so badly.

"Santana, you in there?"

I wanted to cry forever. Her sweet voice had finally found me, but now it was too late.


	13. Catastrophe and The Cure

**Chapter 13: CATASTROPHE AND THE CURE**

_**(Brittany, Tokyo, November 2012)**_

Through the glass door I watched her, seated on the wall outside. She was bent into a question mark and rubbing her fingernails. The heels of her dirty boots collided with brick, her long hair hanging in her face as the moon fell down upon her.

I opened the door and stood in the slat between night and light. Her head swiveled left to catch me, a blank face engulfed in flames.

"Hey," I whispered.

She pushed a weak smile into the corner of her mouth. "Hey," she echoed.

I slid out of the doorway onto pavement. "Can I join you?"

She shrugged, legs still swinging, the toe of her boot caught in the moonlight. She'd started wearing those a while ago, way before she came out to me. Maybe it was what she thought lesbians were supposed to wear.

With a sigh I pulled myself up onto the wall. She didn't bother to move as my hip struck hers, my thigh grazing her jeans. I felt her palm fall along the wall's surface, one finger beside mine.

"Aren't you cold out here?" I asked.

"No, I'm good."

Fall usually came late to Tokyo, bursting through the heat with no warning. But it had come early this year and all of the leaves had already turned orange, bleeding with color.

Santana turned her head to gaze down the empty street. Next to me her hand tapped out a nervous melody. Dirt-streaked fingers, dotted wet.

The first time I'd met her she was sitting like this, sliding into the auditorium seat next to me for McKinley's freshman orientation. I'd stared at her then too, caught in her hair and her wide dark eyes. Caught in her blank, cold expression. Caught in her dangling legs and her drumming fingers. For some reason I didn't wanna look away.

_"Hey, I'm Brittany,"_ I said, holding out my hand. That's what you were supposed to do. Shake peoples' hands when you met them.

She gave me a funny look, pausing for a moment. _"Santana." _She didn't give me her hand in return.

_"Santana? Isn't that the name of a band?" _

_"Yeah, so what?" _she countered.

_"I like music. And dancing."_

_"Me too," _she answered, her face growing softer as she fiddled with the straps of her backpack. _"I think I'm gonna join the Cheerios. Should be good for status." _She shrugged. _"You should join too. If you can dance."_

_"Yeah, okay."_ I smiled at her.

I had no idea then what that smile meant, that that was the handshake she'd finally decide to take, that from that moment we'd become best friends. And then more than just friends. Everything.

I looked at her now, laying a palm over her fingers, and swallowed them in a tiny hug . When she turned her head to face me there were tears in her eyes, months of tears dried on her cheeks.

"Hey, will you come with me somewhere?" I asked.

She bit her lip, one bruised word falling out. "Where?"

"Just come. Please?"

She pulled her hand away from me, folding her arms across her chest. That expression on her face, I'd seen it before. In the bathroom that night. On my couch in the morning.

Her eyes flew back into her skull, running away on a trail of black and brown.

"Please?" I repeated.

_"Did you make it?" _she'd asked, running up to me, the yellow paper in her fist. Cheerios.

She was nothing but smiles then, nothing but jumps. And she was so cool. Much cooler than me. Much stronger. I couldn't wait to be friends with her.

I took her down the street, walking in silence. Past the FamilyMart and the McDonald's, past the shrine with the cats out front, past the kindergarten that looked vaguely like a prison yard.

In the dark the plum trees loomed large, the short wooden bridge and the stream coursing towards us. On days off I stood here looking over the water. The koi circled the surface like a gasoline rainbow and all of the school kids would come running up behind me in their little yellow caps, laughing.

It couldn't be stranger or more beautiful. Something like this in the center of cold, metal Tokyo. Something so pure.

Santana looked at me. The questions in her eyes grew, her footsteps slowly following mine into the center of the bridge.

"I love this place." I bent over the rail, breathing in the scent of fish on water. "I thought...I don't know...I think it's just like magic here. A magical fairyland."

She was still staring, sucking at her lower lip, taking one step backwards.

"You wanna look? At the fish? You can still sort of see them, even in the dark."

Her warm eyes lined with red were asking so much.

_Please don't cry now, Santana. Please don't cry._

And then I felt her next to me, her feet bumping mine, her shoulder shadowing the weight of my elbow on the bridge's rail.

"I can't see anything," she spoke softly.

"You gotta look hard. They're in there. Trust me."

Without thinking I wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her in too close.

One moment. One stupid moment.

The past was a flood.

Beneath my skin, I felt her body jerk away as if I were a burn. A knife. The needle of a tattoo gun. And then she was behind me again with her finger in her mouth, biting it the same way that I did, looking down at her heavy black boots.

I heard her voice ring out, so rough and so tired and so scared. "Brittany?"

And it was just like that night- my fingers pressed against my jeans, wanting nothing more than to touch her, to let her know how much I loved her. Skin on skin in a kiss.

But I saw her body, curled under this gray blanket of shadows, still hiding.

"I don't know myself anymore," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, how could I let that shit happen? I'm not a weak fucking coward. I'm not some lame chick that people take advantage of. Am I?"

"No," I said, taking a step towards her.

"Yeah, no. I don't know," she whispered, shaking her head. She stared out across the dark, dark water. "Why didn't I make him stop? Why couldn't I stop him?"

I closed my eyes, crying. "I don't know," I whispered.

"I feel like I'm all alone inside. Like how I was before I met you," she said.

"You're not alone," I said softly. I turned around to smile at her. But it was a smile full of tears. I wiped them away and settled my wet fingers on the wooden rail of the bridge. "I'm still here."

"I know," she answered, looking down at my fingers.

"I never left you, Santana."

"I know." She stared at me, at my hands that ached to hold her. She took a step forward. "You were right. I left myself." She shrugged into her shoulders. "But I don't know where I went, Brit. Where did I go? Where did I go? And why can't I get myself back?"

_Please don't cry now, Santana. Please don't cry._

But she couldn't stop, standing there holding onto herself in the middle of my bridge, standing there like some ancient statue. Her hair was glowing, her cheeks pink and wet. Her shoulders shook down into her arms, her waist, her legs, her feet planted so solidly on the ground.

I put a hand on her arm and I said the only thing left there was to say. "I love you, Santana."

_"I got in too!" _I exclaimed.

_"Sweet!" _And before I knew what had happened, she was in my arms, nearly knocking me over with the crash of her hug.

"I'm so sorry, Brit," Santana sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

I walked into Santana's concrete. Two hands on her shoulders, my fingers dancing down. Two arms, my waist hitting hers. Two legs, sliding into her calves.

She sobbed into my sweater. "I love you," she said, as quick as a flash of lightning.

"I know," I whispered.

The koi below us formed a circle that could barely be seen, curving under the dark water and swimming themselves to sleep.


End file.
